


Excuse Yourself (Let Me Let You Go)

by Make_It_Worse



Series: Mind Your Manners [3]
Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Bottom Hank, Bottom!Hank, Canon-Typical Violence, Case Fic, Emotional Hurt, Eventual Happy Ending, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Shooting Guns, Top Connor, Top!Connor, Unresolved Emotional Tension, but probably not until the next part of the series, gotta have the bad before the good, no beta we die like men, this is not the end, this one is gonna be a bit more intense
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-26
Updated: 2018-11-30
Packaged: 2019-08-30 01:40:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16755433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Make_It_Worse/pseuds/Make_It_Worse
Summary: Connor finds the body first and holds out an arm to bar Hank’s progress. Hank grunts at him before trying to shoulder through. Connor’s other hand comes up to rest firmly against his chest. His eyes never look away from the body before him. Hank’s about to bark something harsh at the android when he finally looks down at the victim.Hideous understanding blossoms to life, slithering through Hank’s veins.--This is part 3 of a series. This section focuses on finding out what ratbag Perkins has been up to.Readpart 1andpart 2if you want a better understanding of what's going on here.This is not the end.





	1. Where Evil Finds You

After a week of pulling together cases from the past decade, Hank felt confident enough to take their tenuous connection to Fowler. The Captain was less than pleased.

“You mean to tell me that fucking Perkins has been digging around in your cases—,”

“Our cases.” Fowler ignores Hank’s interruption in favor of continuing his verbal dress down.

“—for more than a decade, and you’re just now telling me?” Hank understands Fowler’s irritation well enough. He’d been simmering in it himself for the past several days. Even so, it’s not as if Jeffrey had made the connection either.

“Look, no one ever followed up on those cases. There were too many of them, Red Ice was everywhere, and we had to make priorities! We chose to focus on the Red Ice. We hoped if we could put a stop to the ring that we could put a stop to some of the murders, and we did. You were there, Captain. It wasn’t our call then. Why would we follow up on cases that higher up closed?”

The Captain sighs and sinks into his chair, conceding the point with a gesture of his hand, “I know, but how did we not notice that Perkins was sneaking in and scooping them all up into his greedy little hands? What’s he want with them anyway?”

This was a question they’d all been circling since the conversation began. It didn’t make any sense. Perkins had acted as if he didn’t know who Hank or Captain Fowler were before trying to take the Jericho case from them. His decade-long interference with their cases suggested otherwise.

“Beside you, me, and Perkins, I’m not seeing anything similar about them. Which means you’ve brought me a new goddamn headache to deal with. A massive increase in crime and now a possible plot against you and me that’s been brewing for years.” Hank stands to pace the office, a nervous habit for when he’s trying to think.

“Connor, looking at the particulars got us nowhere. We had to look at the people before we found any possible connection—,”

“Yeah, for _those_ cases. Doesn’t tell us dick all about the others.” The Captain interrupts Hank, irritation at this new and significant problem clear.

“Anyway, I was saying,” Hank cast a glance at the Captain to see if he was going to interject again, “maybe there is something else about the people that we missed.” Fowler can see where he’s going with it and waves at them both.

“Outta my office until one of you figures out some other connection. This isn’t enough for me to go barking up Perkins’ tree. You found the first breadcrumb. Find something else to make it stick.”

They walk back to their desks in silence, both of their minds focusing on the facts. Hank sinks into his chair, leaning over his desk and scowling at the files spread there, “Seventeen cases. Fucking seventeen murders.”

“Let’s reexamine what we know.” This is a recent refrain of Connor’s, and it annoys Hank just as much now as it did the first time he said it.

“All we know is Perkins took an interest in me and the Captain. What the fuck for I—,”

“Not necessarily,” Connor says it quietly, but his tone takes the wind out of Hank’s irritation, “We know he was interested in these murders and we know you and Captain Fowler worked on them together. I doubt it’s a coincidence, but there must be something about the murders themselves.”

Hank pinches the bridge of his nose, “I know, Connor, but there isn’t anything similar about the murders.” He lets out a sigh before picking up a file at random, “This sad fuck took a bullet between the eyes,” he sets the file down and picks up another one, “This one had her brain smashed in with a bat.”

“Besides the fact that someone murdered them, is there anything else similar about them? You said you wanted to look at the people so let’s look.” They scan the files for a few minutes before reaching the same conclusion.

“They’re all different. Men, women, young, old, and several different races.” Connor is scrutinizing one file in particular while Hank continues to list off how all of the victims have nothing in common.

“Hank,” Hank keeps muttering under his breath about Perkins and cold cases until Connor persists, “ _Hank._ ”

“What?” It comes out as a snap, but Connor ignores it.

“Who is this person? Who is she?” Hank stares at Connor as if he’s lost his mind.

“Her name’s on the file, Connor. You feeling all right?” Connor’s finger toys with the corner of the case file.

“What’s her background?” Hank realizes Connor must be onto something or he wouldn’t be acting so strangely. “We need to go back to the physical archives. I need to compare something.” He strides away without waiting for Hank, and the man has to jog to catch up to him.

“Slow down, Connor. Perkins has been sitting on this for years. A few extra minutes to walk at a normal pace isn’t going to hurt anything.” Connor doesn’t slow his gate, and Hank grumbles under his breath about sprint-walking.

Connor paces from cabinet to cabinet, seemingly at random before Hank asks, “Care to tell me what you’re looking for?” Connor makes a noncommittal sound before turning so abruptly he almost collides into Hank, forcing him to grab onto Connor to avoid tripping in his haste to step back.

“Whoa. Hit the brakes, kid.” A streak of frustration jolts across Connor’s face, but he doesn’t let go of Connor’s arms. Hank squeezes them gently, “What is it?”

“I am an idiot.” Hank gapes at Connor. For as much grief that Connor gives Hank for self-deprecating comments, it is bizarre to hear Connor speak of himself this way.

“Come again?” Hank says it weakly, not sure what to do with Connor’s self-doubt.

“This woman,” he holds the now slightly crumpled file in his hand, “is a criminal.” This was news to Hank, but it didn’t explain much about Connor’s current mood. After a moment, he offers, “They’re all criminals. To some degree, anyway.”

Hank eyes him suspiciously, “There’s no way. We would’ve seen it in the files. I mean, sure. Maybe that woman was,” Hank waves his hand at the case in Connor’s hand, “but _all_ of them? You’re telling me whoever assigned me to these cases didn’t bother to include pertinent details like that? That _I_ never came across it?”

“The information wasn’t important at the time and you didn’t get very far in investigating most of these. Not all of them were high-profile criminals. This woman had a criminal history of copyright infringement. I doubt it would seem relevant. Not when they linked her death to a well-known gambling ring. They assumed she had run afoul of a gambling kingpin or so the notes indicate. Someone assigned it to you; you looked into it, as did the Captain. Nothing seemed out of place with the evidence you were given.”

“So someone doctored up the cases before ever giving them to me—,” Connor shakes his head, dismissing that theory.

“No, like I said, the information wasn’t relevant. You noted that some of them had a criminal past if an investigation got far enough along. More often than not, someone higher up closed it before you could do much more than look at the crime scene. They also wanted your focus on the Red Ice issue.”

“So was I being distracted from something else happening in the background?” Connor’s expression lets Hank know he’s on the right path this time.

“I believe Perkins didn’t want you and the Captain looking at them too closely. You both were rising rapidly through the ranks. You were well-known for catching criminals and bringing them to justice.”

Hank can feel a conclusion hovering just out of reach. He runs his hands through his hair in frustration. The answer seems obvious, but his own personal skin in the game makes him hesitant. He tries to remember details about those murders, but a decade of time and other crimes clouds his mind.

Connor’s voice brings Hank back to the present, pulling him out of a miasma of murderous memories, “There is a murderer targeting criminals. The most recent case that brought you down here last week tells us that individual is still active.” Memories of their time spent in the archive try to invade Hank’s mind, but it won’t accept the mental picture of Connor crawling towards him. It’s too at odds with why they’re here now.

He tries to inhale sharply, but his lungs refuse to expand. He feels cold and knows with certainty that Connor is right. Another suspicion begins to grow at the base of his neck before branching out to consume his skull in a sickly prickle.

“Yeah,” Hank acknowledges Connor’s theory before adding his own, “and Perkins knows who it is.”

Connor inclines his head at Hank, “Correct. This person is also an opportunist as well as patient. He or she took advantage of the Red Ice mania to commit crimes in relative anonymity. When the Red Ice issue culminated, this type of rampant murder ceased. It’s the same now, but with the revolution. With so much death, a few extra victims goes unnoticed. Everyone assumes it’s related to the ongoing political battles.”

“Christ.” Hank runs a hand through his hair, trying to determine what their next move should be. “This is enough for the Captain, but...” he trails off, not feeling ready to hand the information over just yet.

“It’s not enough to prove anything against Perkins.” Connor supplies when Hank falls silent. “We can start making soft inquiries, but I doubt it would go unnoticed.”

Hank suppresses a sigh, “Not sure we have much of a choice.”

When they return to the main floor, the scene is pandemonium. Connor takes in Fowler screaming into his phone, Reed reaming a rookie, and every other conversation happening nearby to construct the most plausible explanation for what’s going on around them.

“There’s been another murder, Lieutenant.” Hank accepts the information with a nod and sets off toward Fowler’s office. The Captain waves Hank and Connor in.

“Tell him he can go straight to hell. We are _not_ handing it over to him. He has _no_ jurisdiction. _None_.” The Captain confirms Hank’s suspicion when he slams the phone down on his desk and mutters, “Fucking Perkins.”

“Not news you wanted to hear, I take it?” Fowler shakes his head at the question. “Well then, you’re really not gonna like this.” Taking it in turns, Connor and Hank explain their theory to the Captain, whose expression grows darker with each new piece of information.

“You need to get down to a scene, _now_. I don’t know how long I can hold Perkins off, but you need to find out as much as you can before he locks us out of the case.” Fowler scribbles an address on a piece of paper and hands it to Connor. Locking eyes with Hank, he continues, “There’s been another murder. Perkins didn’t even give us a chance to get to this one before he tried to get his grubby hands on it. This one is different. I don’t know why, but he’s panicking.”

With a nod, Hank rises and Connor follows him out to his car. They’re silent on the drive, both processing what they know, trying to puzzle out any clue to help them understand Perkins’ motive. The scene is chaos. The savagery of the press, never knowing any bounds in the past, surges around them as they walk past flashing cameras and reporters shouting questions at them.

The officer handling the scene stares at Hank, eyes wide when he approaches the front door. Giving the man an odd look, Hank and Connor walk gingerly through the house, avoiding splashes of blood. Hank assumes by the wrecked nature of the home that this one is going to be a particularly brutal murder. Nothing in the house appears untouched. Picture frames hang unevenly on the walls, potted plants lay smashed where they were knocked off a shelf, and the furniture is in varying states of disarray, pushed away from their usual resting places. Deep scars in the hardwood floors show where a table had shifted several feet before it was toppled onto its side.

Connor finds the body first and holds out an arm to bar Hank’s progress. Hank grunts at him before trying to shoulder through. Connor’s other hand comes up to rest firmly against his chest. His eyes never look away from the body before him. Hank’s about to bark something harsh at the android when he finally looks down at the victim.

Hideous understanding blossoms to life, slithering through Hank’s veins. His eyes dart from detail to detail, trying to take in everything he’s seeing. For the amount of blood and chaos they saw coming in, the body is surprisingly not maimed. The murderer took the time to arrange the dead man’s limbs. His grey eyes are open, staring unseeingly at the ceiling. A dark red stain spreads from beneath his folded arms, concealing the wound that killed him. It’s what he’s embracing against his chest that has Connor frozen in his tracks.

It’s a photo of Hank.

He’s on the phone within seconds, updating Fowler. When he ends the call, he turns to Connor, “We need to leave. Conflict of interest. Nothing we can do.” Connor stares at him before nodding, pulling Hank with him as he turns to leave.

Hank fills the air with words, jabbering the entire way back to the precinct, “The killer did some decorating for us. The blood was staged. The mess, too. That man didn’t put up a fight at all by the looks of him.” Connor remains pensive, his eyebrows drawn.

“I don’t like this.”

Hank resists the urge to roll his eyes, “How d’you think I feel? It wasn’t your face cradled in some dead guy’s ar—,” Connor cuts him off with an irritated gesture.

“No. I don’t like any of this. We just made the connection. How could the murderer have known?” Hank pauses, trying to untangle this latest unanswerable question. Connor makes a small noise, bringing Hank’s attention back to him, “Hank, do you have a home security system?”

The question is jarring and out of place with their current situation, “Connor, is now really the time? I mean, I know it was my fucking picture and all, but jeez. It’s not like I can run home and lock up right this second.”

Connor shakes his head, trying to make Hank understand the urgency of his inquiry, “Would you know if someone had been in your house?” The question hits home and Hank understands.

“The files. We’ve had the files and the notes and…fuck… _everything_ strewn across my living room for days.”

Connor’s line of questioning has the first tendrils of cool fear wrapping around his gut. He speaks, interrupting Hank’s morbid reverie, “It’s only a theory. We can’t be certain. If someone was in the house, they didn’t move anything. I would’ve noticed.” Hank tries to let the thought comfort him, but it does little to assuage the dread lapping at the edges of his senses.

He expected it from the first moment he saw the photo, but the sight of Fowler standing at his desk makes his dark mood worse, “I don’t have to explain to you why you’re on desk duty, correct?” Hank nods disagreeably and flops into his chair, irritation at being coddled.

Fowler starts in on him, “Have a care for yourself, will you? This is serious. Whoever is doing all this is done hiding in the shadows. If you weren’t a target before, you definitely are now. Hell, probably me too.”

“It wasn’t your face.” Hank spits it out, the absence of a deferential _Captain_ on the end of his sentence prickles through the air like angry static.

“Then act like you’re taking this seriously, _Anderson_.” Fowler slams a file down on Hank’s desk, punctuating the shift to using his last name. “This came in while you were out. Perkins got his jurisdiction, but we’ve seen enough to come at him. Start working the phones while I figure out what we’re going to do with you.”

Hank startles at that, “What d’you mean, what you’re going to do with me?” The Captain pinches his nose and Connor’s hand makes an aborted movement as if to grip Hank’s shoulder before dropping it, remembering they don’t touch at work—not where people can see anyway.

“This person is _targeting_ you,” Fowler says with irritation, “You can’t just go home and watch TV like nothing is happening. We need to get you to a safe house, or at least a hotel—,” Hank surges to his feet, indignant and ready to put up a fight.

“I am not turning tail while this fucker runs around murdering people and leaving my picture behind. I’m not fucking doing it.” Fowler levels a steady gaze at Hank, arms crossed. Hank already knows he’s lost, is well aware of the protocols in place. If he wasn’t thrumming with adrenaline, he probably would’ve realized on the drive over that this would happen. Still, he’s not ready to roll over and play opossum, “What house could be safe for me? It’s fucking Perkins. He’ll be able to see any string you pull.”

Fowler cuts him off with a wave of his hand, “You don’t have a choice. I’m working on the details.” Fowler turns to go, but stops at his office door before calling back, “Don’t insult my intelligence by implying I’m using conventional methods concerning your safety.” His words are harsher than his tone.

Hank knows he’s in good hands, that he’s far safer listening to whatever Fowler tells him than to go home and sit like a petulant child waiting for an attack. He shoots a pensive look at Fowler’s office door before opening his inbox with a huff. Hank stifles a noise of surprise. His inbox usually only contains a stray email or two about cases he’s working on. Hank can’t remember a time when his unread emails ever made it to the double digits. As it stands, he has 132 new emails from an unknown sender.

Suspicion flares to life, making him wary before opening the first one. Hank’s stomach clenches wildly but his brain can comprehend why. He’s dimly aware that no one at the station sent this email or any of the emails he begins to click through. Dread unfurls and tangles with his heart. Connor is by his side before Hank finishes looking over the first email. Hank can hear him talking, but the sound of a thousand bees swarms his ears. He feels heavy and unable to stand. He keeps clicking violently through the emails before slender fingers run over his own and pry his hand away from the mouse.

He hears Connor call for the Captain. Gentle hands help lift him from his seat that Fowler quickly fills. Connor leads Hank away from his desk toward the break room. With each foot of distance put between him and his computer, some of the panic leaves him. His brain reengages, full-on detective mode.

“What the _fuck_?” is the first coherent thought that leaves his mouth, but his mind is generating a list of possible motives and suspects. He has to _do_ something or he will burst. “That fucker was in my house, Connor.”

Connor is watching him with an unreadable expression, “I know, Hank.” His eyes roam over Hank’s face, but he offers no input on what he just saw. Hank can see his LED circling a venomous red.

“Well?” Hank asks, hands flying up in the air, demanding a response from Connor. It takes Hank a moment to realize that Connor is angry. He can almost feel it wafting off the android in waves.

“I was there,” is all Connor offers at first.

“Yeah, so was I, the fucker made sure that was clear.” The images run unbidden through his mind. The emails only contained pictures, but the first was Hank’s front door. The rest were a series of snapshots showing the person’s casual perusal of Hank’s home in the early hours of a recent morning.

The first picture inside the home offered a clear view of Sumo regarding the camera warily. The next photo showed Hank’s bathroom mirror smattered with various post-it notes, the creep carefully out of frame. The last photo Hank saw before Connor pulled him away was of himself, sleeping soundly. Either the picture was taken much too close for comfort or the person had zoomed in as much as possible on his face. He’s not sure which is a more uncomfortable thought.

“I was in stasis.” Connor’s quiet voice cuts through Hank’s disturbed thoughts, “I didn’t hear the intruder. I…” Connor’s fists ball up at his sides. Hank can see what’s trying to take shape in Connor’s mind and he’s not having any of it.

“Oh, no. No way. This is not your fault. This has been brewing on some fucked up back burner for over a decade. If you weren’t there, the fucker probably would’ve brained me on the spot.” Connor opens his mouth to respond, but someone clearing their throat behind them makes both of them turn.

Hank isn’t sure how long Fowler had been standing there. He approaches them, a print out in hand with a curious expression on his face, “Speaking of Connor’s presence in your home,” he begins, “I believe there is something the three of us need to discuss.” Hank looks at what Fowler’s holding and blanches. Connor had pulled him away before he could look through all of the emails.

It’s a photo of Hank sleeping with Connor wrapped around him like a protective cocoon.


	2. Until Our Next Hello

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Slender fingers wrap around Hank’s chin, yanking his face back down. Connor’s eyes convey a clear message of _Don’t hide from me_. As is the usual way of things for them, Connor won’t back down until Hank talks through his feelings. But, as is also the usual way of things for Hank, he’s going to try and weasel out of it first. 
> 
> __
> 
> Sorry, this is going to be a sad one. It'll get better in time.

Hank’s certain Fowler asked him a question, but he’s staring determinedly at the glass of water in his hands, pretending for all he’s worth that he’s not where he is right now. The play-acting doesn’t last for long. Fowler’s fingers come into view, snapping harshly in front of his nose.

“Lieutenant, I need you to answer me.” The Captain steps back a pace once Hank makes eye contact. His expression is equal parts panic and anger. He looks like a rabid animal, cornered and ready to attack. His fingers go white around the glass from clenching too hard.

Connor’s voice dials back his urge to lash out, if only slightly, “Five months. I’ve been staying with Lieutenant Anderson for five months.”

“So, we are talking about this,” Hank says it with a sigh, feeling his initial terror transform into something cold and solid in the pit of his stomach. Fowler gives him an exasperated look.

“Nice of you to join the conversation. You’re going to have to talk with HR eventually, but you’ve got bigger problems than shacking up with your subordinate.” Hank makes an indignant noise, but Connor’s hand on his shoulder makes him go stock-still. Fowler’s eyes track from Connor’s hand to Hank’s face and back again before resolutely staring at a spot on the wall somewhere to the left of the both of them.

“I, for one, don’t care, but HR might. I doubt they have any of this sorted out yet.” Hank’s not certain if Jeffrey is saying it to be kind or if it’s the truth, but he can feel himself unclench a little, “Androids may have equal rights now, but paperwork takes forever. I have no idea if there are any regulations or rules about dating…” Fowler trails off into an uncomfortable silence, not sure how to continue his line of thought.

“As of right now, Captain, there are not. Current available literature only references human relationships.” Connor’s tone is light, but Hank can tell he’s choosing his words carefully. There’s something he isn’t saying, but Hank’s not stupid enough to point it out right now.

Fowler shakes his head irritably, “Fine. Who’s sleeping with who isn’t my main priority right now,” He shifts to make eye contact with Hank, trying to bring the conversation back to more comfortable ground. “We need to get you out of here now. I don’t want you here when Perkins arriv—,”

Hank’s anger flares back to life at the mention of the man’s name, “I want to be here. I want to beat his face in. I want—,” Fowler holds up his hands, a universal gesture of surrender.

“I get it, I do, but you’ve already sucker punched the guy once before and you’re damned lucky to still have your job. Add in another physical attack on top of,” he breaks off gesturing a hand back and forth between Hank and Connor, “ _that_ and you’re asking for forced retirement.”

“What the fuck does Connor have to do—,”

“They will use him and anything else they can against you. Whether or not there aren’t rules about dating between humans and androids, there is definitely a precedent for not dating those junior to you. We have no idea what Perkins is up to and we are rapidly running out of time to get you the hell out of here.”

Hank can tell Connor is inclined to agree with the Captain, but helplessness is not a feeling Hank enjoys sharing brain space with. “Where am I going?” he asks gruffly before rising.

“For now? My cabin on Lake St. Clair. It’s about an hour away. Close, but not too close. Detective Reed is stocking it with groceries and some spare clothes now. We’ll take it in turns to stay with you.” Connor looks visibly disturbed by the thought or anyone other than himself filling the role of guard dog to Hank. Fowler sees his expression and heads him off, “You can’t be the only one. We need you here, too. You’re capable of processing so much more, wringing more information out of a single piece of evidence than any of us can.”

Connor and Hank know he’s right, but the thought of Connor returning to work without Hank is disquieting to both of them. “You can have the first rotation. We’ll take it in 12-hour shifts. I will keep you both updated as best I can.” Fowler’s phone pings, and he checks it before adding, “I ordered you a taxi. It’s waiting out front.”

Fowler hands over a set of house keys to Hank, who takes them with a muttered, “Thanks.” Hank stalks past his desk, ignoring the IT team that descended upon it less than an hour before. He can feel Connor following closely behind. Hank sets a much more rapid pace than usual, feeling jittery and unsettled. He wrenches open the door to the autonomous cab and collapses into a seat with ill humor. Connor settles in, closes the door, and engages the autopilot.

Hank wants to do something, to take action—not be sent away like a problem child to boarding school. He shakes his head, trying to rid himself of the thought. A more sane part of his brain knows this is for the best and that he’d be pushing anyone in his shoes to listen to Fowler. A tentative hand on his own startles him.

“Are you…”Connor trails off for a moment, and Hank can tell he wants to ask if he’s ok. It’s a ridiculous question that Connor already knows the answer to, but he’s giving Hank the opportunity to put voice to his feelings. Hank has a bad habit of bottling his emotions until they spring out of his mouth in mean words he can’t take back. They both know this, and they’ve been working on it together for the past several months.

Still, some habits are harder to break than others are.

“The fuck do you think?” He says it with as much anger as he can and rips his hand away from Connor’s touch. Hank doesn’t bother with his usual sheepish cringe after being rude to Connor. He doesn’t particularly care at the moment. With other people dictating so much of his life, Connor’s concern makes him feel all the more infantile.

He expects some kind of reprimand, Connor never lets discourtesy slide, but he says nothing. His silence kicks Hank’s heart into overdrive. He knows Connor can sense it, but his refusal to acknowledge Hank’s distress makes the hammering in his chest all the worse.

After several moments of panic, Connor finally speaks, “Calm down, Henry. You’ll have a heart attack at that rate.” Connor’s tone forbids conversation and Hank’s heart opts to exchange its frantic pounding in favor of not beating at all. He remembers to breathe and a painful arrhythmia resumes in his chest.

 _Henry_. He’d called him Henry. Hank’s mind fills with unpleasant memories. No one ever calls him by his full first name unless he’s fucked up bad. The remainder of the car ride is silent. Hank opens his mouth several times to speak, to apologize, to keep fighting, to say anything to break the silence but he falls short of producing actual words every time. Twice, he makes a gruff berating sound, as if he can goad himself into speech. Connor never looks at him, his LED a constant rotating yellow reflected in the window of their automated car.

By the time they get to the cabin, Hank is in a state of high anxiety. There is too much pressing in on him, too much to process, on top of Connor’s uncharacteristic quietness. Keys in hand, Hank jogs up to the house to try to burn off some of his agitated energy. He feels Connor enter behind him and shut the door. He hears Connor walk off into the living room as his hands fumble to try to find a light switch.

“Fucking dark ass cabin in the middle of the woods,” he grumbles under his breath. Giving up on the lights for the time being, he turns to deadbolt the door. Any added barrier between him and a homicidal maniac is a good one.

“So.” Connor’s quiet, angry voice fires through the dark, mere feet behind Hank. When had he gotten that close? Through his startled jumping, Hank feels Connor’s cool hands grab him and spin him around roughly. He senses Connor’s arm gliding alongside him before deftly flicking the light switch Hank had been groping for seconds before. Both arms press against the door, caging Hank between it and Connor’s chest.

Soft, gentle light blooms to life around them, casting Connor’s angry features in harsh shadow. Connor may be the shorter of the two, but his expression makes Hank feel smaller than a child. Either Connor chooses to stop blinking or time freezes momentarily for Hank, he can’t be sure which. Displeased Connor he knows. Livid Connor makes it to the top of his _Shit I Never Want to Experience Again_ list the moment his eyes adjust to the light.

Connor is staring at him expectantly, but all Hank can articulate is, “Wha…um…huh?” How Connor could shift Hank’s primary concern from _survive a scheming murderer_ to _survive android rage_ was beyond him. Between staying here and fleeing into the night, the latter seems the better option. Hank leans his head back against the door, trying to create space between himself and Connor’s overwhelming presence.

Slender fingers wrap around Hank’s chin, yanking his face back down. Connor’s eyes convey a clear message of _Don’t hide from me_. As is the usual way of things for them, Connor won’t back down until Hank talks through his feelings. But, as is also the usual way of things for Hank, he’s going to try and weasel out of it first.

His first attempt is logical, “We need to set up surveillance. We don’t have time for _this_ right now.” He emphasizes his point by trying to push past Connor. His body gives no quarter.

“I connected with Captain Fowler’s security system on our drive over here once its signal came into range. My background processors can handle all the data feeds including video and audio. Detective Reed sent a message that he double-checked that all doors and windows are locked. We have the next 10 hours and 17 minutes to do _this_.”

Hank grimaces, but Connor presses the subject harder, “I understand you are upset, and you have every right to be, but lashing out at everybody trying to help you won’t solve this case any faster. Behaving like a spoiled child who hasn’t gotten his way for the first time in his life is a fast way to get you _killed_. Stop acting wounded and put upon by the people trying to keep you safe. Stop resisting anyone who’s trying to help you out of some macho desire to show how strong you are.”

Connor’s tone is even but the words feel like a slap to the face, and Hank sags under the weight of them. He closes his eyes, not wanting to see Connor’s disappointment. His face must look as miserable as he feels because Connor moves his hands to gently cradle Hank’s face.

“Look at me.” Hank shakes his head, feeling for all the world like the child Connor just accused him of being. “Hank,” he says it gentler, concern edging out anger. With no direction to go but down, Hank sinks to the floor in a self-protective crouch; Connor goes with him. He doesn’t want to talk about it; he wants to _do_ something about it. Being trapped in this house makes him frantic, inaction giving life to the worst version of himself. 

“I’m scared.” He says it quietly, the admission ghosting out and away from his mouth. Connor’s hands are back on his face, and Hank forces open his eyes. The anger isn’t gone from Connor’s expression, but at least it’s no longer directed at Hank, or not only at Hank, at any rate.

“So am I.” Hank’s breath hitches when he hears the words. Connor isn’t often afraid, and for the last several moments he looked more scary than scared. Hank unbends his legs trying to remove any physical barriers between him and Connor while they combat his mental ones. Connor moves forward in a fluid motion, straddling Hank’s thighs. 

Connor’s hands glide into Hank’s hair, tightening slightly, his LED still stuck on a perpetual yellow rotation. His forehead drifts forward toward Hank’s and his eyes close when their skin connects. Hank knows Connor won’t be moved until he’s satisfied.

After a minute of silence, Hank offers his attempt at an olive branch, “Still mad at me?”

“Yes.” It comes out quiet and tired, but Connor doesn’t offer any other explanation. Hank’s lived with Connor for long enough to know he’s not angry that Hank snapped at him. That was part of it, for sure, but Hank’s only human and has barked harsh responses before. Connor’s never gotten this upset about it in the past.

Hank sighs knowing Connor will sit like this for hours until Hank capitulates. “Why?” He decides to ask the direct question in the interest of saving time and getting up off the uncomfortable floor.

Connor shifts back slightly, blinking open his eyes and releasing his grip on Hank’s hair. For someone only recently introduced to emotions, Connor has the remarkable ability to express several of them at once. Hank sees anger and fear warring with something else he can’t identify on Connor’s face.

“You’re not taking this seriously. From the second we found the victim holding your picture up until a moment ago, you’ve behaved irrationally. You’re upset, anyone can see that, but you’re showing a disconcerting disregard for your safety. You’re more worried about not getting to assault Perkins than you are about a murderer targeting you.”

Hank groans at himself and runs a hand down his face. He’s not used to other people caring about him. He forgets that Connor analyzes every action, and isn’t familiar enough yet with how Hank behaves under pressure.

“I’m concerned, Connor. More than concerned. That person was in my house, standing over my bed, taking pictures of us,” he grimaces at the thought before continuing on, “Wallowing in it and hiding while everyone else risks their necks for me—it’s not a situation that makes me comfortable.” Connor’s head tilts slightly to one side, considering Hank’s words for a moment. He opens his mouth to speak but halts abruptly. His LED blinks a rapid red before settling back to yellow.

“What’s wrong?” Connor rises to his feet and extends a hand to Hank before answering the question.

“Captain Fowler is coming ahead of schedule. He’s bringing Perkins.” Hank isn’t sure if the information makes him happy or angry. He accepts Connor’s hand and then wanders into the kitchen.

“Gonna need to eat if I’m going to have round two with the fucker.” Connor makes an unamused noise but doesn’t disabuse Hank of the notion. Two turkey sandwiches and the better part of an hour later, Captain Fowler crosses the threshold with Perkins in tow. Both men look grim, but Perkins looks on the verge of fainting.

“You son of a bit—,” Hank strides towards the small man, towering well over half a foot above him. Fowler moves to block Hank’s path, extending his arms.

“You’re going to want to hear him out before you beat him half to death.”

“I’m going to beat him _entirely_ to death, Captain.” Hank tries to surge around him, but Connor’s shoots out an arm to halt his progress.

“As much as I enjoy light conversation about murdering FBI agents, this one should have relevant information regarding the person trying to kill you.” Connor’s tone employs a sing-songy false lightness before he shifts his attention to Perkins, “Speak.” It’s a command and one Perkins is quick to obey.

“Look, I had no way—,” Perkins begins to try to explain himself when Fowler cuts him off with an irritated flick of his hand.

“You need to sit down for this.” They all relocate to the living room, and Hank drops heavily onto the couch next to Connor. Fowler takes the chair adjacent to them while Perkins picks an over-stuffed recliner on the other side of the coffee table, putting as much distance as he can between himself and Hank.

Everyone is silent for a moment before Connor leans forward and gives Perkins a smile that shows far too much teeth, “You were saying?” Perkins leans far back from Connor’s hostile expression before offering an explanation.

“You have to understand, I wasn’t sure I was even right at first. I had a hunch at best.” Fowler snorts through his nose, but waves at Perkins to continue, “I have a nephew, you see. My sister’s son. She died when he was young. Red Ice.” Perkins looks to Hank to see if he’s earning any sympathy points, but Hank crosses his arms and leans back unimpressed.

“I don’t care about your junky sister, get on with it.” He expects Connor to make some sound of disapproval, but Connor is staring at Perkins with zero compassion. He realizes Connor is reading Perkins, waiting for the right moment for a verbal strike.

“She was dying and she knew it. She’d been on it for too long, destroyed too much of her body to mend the damage. She made me promise to take care of her son.” Hank is tempted to interrupt Perkins to tell him to get to the point, but he’s been doing interrogations for long enough that he recognizes a type when he sees one. Perkins wants to talk. Perkins has wanted to talk for a long time and now he has a captive audience. Hank remains silent.

“The boy was…never right. At first, I chalked it up to his mother dying, his whole life changing in the blink of an eye. His dad was never in the picture so he didn’t take to having a new father-figure shoved onto him. It didn’t help that I wasn’t around much. I was new to the bureau and got all the crap rotations and assignments. I tried to make up for it when I was home, but the kid never liked me, even before then.”

“What do you mean by he ‘was never right’?” Connor supplies when Perkins grows quiet. Perkins sighs and puts his face in his hands for a moment before sitting up and continuing.

“He was smart, too smart. He had a bizarre fascination with criminals. He would go on these tangents about how they were so stupid, how they always got caught because of trivial mistakes. That’s when the crime spree began. I would know with absolute certainty he’d done something wrong, but I had no way to prove it. I caught him torturing the neighbor’s cat once. He swore up and down he was trying to save it, but I knew he was the one who’d hurt it. It didn’t make it. After he set the same neighbor’s shed on fire—on accident, he claimed—, we had to move.”

Perkins didn’t appear to want to keep discussing the matter of his wayward nephew, but Fowler cleared his throat and gestured at him to go on.

“It didn’t last long, the living arrangement. He got more out of control with each year. He ran away when he was sixteen. I reported it, but I knew the police would never find him.” Perkins flushed before hastily adding, “Not that I didn’t trust them to, it was just—,” Hank cut him off with a roll of his eyes.

“Save it, Perkins. Now isn’t the time to suddenly start kissing ass.”

Perkins cleared his throat, “Right. Well, anyway. I started receiving random postcards shortly after he left. I recognized his handwriting, but the postcards never contained anything other than my name, address, and random numbers scattered around the card. It took me a while, but I realized he was giving me coordinates, latitude and longitude. He was using degrees and decimal minutes. If he wanted to indicate north, he listed the numbers at the top of the card, bottom for south—you get the picture.”

“And where did these coordinates lead you to?” Connor’s tone is icy and Perkins looks frantically between Connor and Hank before settling on Hank. Hank can’t blame him, having been on the receiving end of an irate Connor earlier in the evening. If looks could kill, Perkins wouldn’t be much more than a chalk outline under Connor’s gaze.

“Murder sites, I know I—Hey!” Hank surges to his feet before Perkins could finish saying _sites_ and strides toward the man, who flings his arms up to protect his face. Hank grabs Perkins by the front of the shirt and bodily lifts him into the air. Connor is at his side and Fowler is shouting at him to put Perkins down, but the urge to throttle the man is hard to resist.

“When.” Hank spits it out as he drops Perkins back in the chair. It’s meant as a question, but the venom in his voice makes it sound like a demand for information.

Perkins looks sheepishly at the floor, “I didn’t figure it out until 2031. The cases were long since closed. Cold, no leads.”

“So you…what? Swooped in and claimed them?” Hank is still on his feet and his fingers itch to latch around Perkins’ scrawny neck.

“What was I going to say, I get postcards with coordinates? It might be my runaway nephew? I had _nothing_ to go on besides his handwriting. The cards came from all over the country. I don’t know how he was doing it, but he was having them mailed from several different states. I tried to trace them. Nothing ever came back. Then your team broke the Red Ice ring shortly after and the murders stopped. The postcards stopped. For a while.” Perkins couldn’t look at Hank anymore.

“What’s _a while_ , Perkins?” Hank spits his name out like poison. Perkins shifts in his chair and even Fowler looks uncomfortable.

“I thought he’d gone underground or left the area entirely. I got a postcard on Halloween, 2035.” Hank sinks back down onto the couch next to Connor, whose face is a mask of confusion.

“But that was right after…” Connor trails off and glances at Hank, who’s staring at Perkins with wide eyes. Confusion, disbelief, and rage tumble tumultuously behind blue irises.

“This postcard was different. In addition to the coordinates, it had two words on it. HIS FAULT in all capital letter.” Perkins breaks off before turning to look at Fowler, seeking aid. Finding none there, he continues, “There was a picture taped to the back of it,” he tries and fails to meet Hank’s gaze, “of your son. The coordinates matched the crash site.”

“Bullshit.” It’s out of Hank’s mouth before his mind can catch up to what Perkins had just told him. “We were in an accident. A truck, it skidded into us—,” Perkins continues to look anywhere but at Hank.

“They never found the truck driver, did they? Hit and run.” Perkins says it bitterly and Hank can hear the finality in his tone. Whether Hank believes it or not, Perkins is absolutely certain as to who the driver was, “That was no accident. It was staged. You took away his ability to hunt and kill so he took the only thing that mattered to you,” Perkins pauses for a moment before adding, “I imagine he was trying to kill you both.”

“Is that supposed to be a fucking apology? You receive all these postcards that you _know_ are linked to murders and you did nothing? And your nephew is free to go on with his life while my son...my _son_...” Apoplectic fury courses through Hank’s veins. The only thing keeping him from attacking Perkins on the spot is Connor’s iron grip on his thigh. Perkins has enough intelligence to rise and move as far away from Hank as he possibly can.

Fowler rises wearily from his seat, “Perkins is working with us to try and track his nephew down. He’s handed over every postcard, including ones pertaining to some of your more recent cases.”

Connor jerks his attention away from Hank’s face, “What? How is he not under arrest? He’s interfered in investigations, allowed a serial killer to roam free, and—,” Fowler raises one hand to halt Connor’s indignant line of questioning.

“We need him. For now. We don’t want to scare his nephew underground. We need everything to look like business as usual if we want to stand a chance of catching him.” Connor’s attention is back on Hank, whose face looks ghostly pale.

Fowler and Perkins turn to leave before Fowler calls back over his shoulder, “Officer Miller is waiting outside to trade off with you Connor; you can take his car back to the station. We need you back to look at the new evidence sooner rather than later.” He says it apologetically before walking out of the house and closing the door behind him.

Connor goes to Hank, and sinks down to his knees, grasping his hands, “Hank, I’m so sorry—,”

“Don’t.” It comes out too loud and too rough. Connor doesn’t flinch away or make any move to leave. A terrible grief consumes Hank. He feels his hands turn cold in Connor’s grip.

 _His fault_. The absolute certainty that his job cost him his son. To know some lunatic targeted his family, those he loved, in revenge. Hank tries to slow his racing mind, but his eyes lock with Connor’s, and a horrible terror replaces his misery.

The picture of him and Connor.

Hank rushes to his feet and Connor is quick to follow, “Hank, what’s wrong? What’s happened?” Connor can sense the sudden change in Hank’s vitals. It’s too much to take in at once. Cole, stolen from him. Connor, a new target. Agony and fear crash into each other, ravaging his worn heart.

“You have to go.” He says it quietly, unbearable anguish etched into his face.

“The Captain said as much, but I can return—,”

Hank cuts him off, “No, Connor. You have to stay away. He’s targeting you to get to me.”

Connor stares at him, expression going blank as if he can’t process what he’s hearing, “We will catch him, Hank. He won’t be able to—,”

Hank interrupts Connor again, but he can’t look at him.

“He’s been at this for over a decade without getting caught or leaving behind any useful evidence. Even if we do catch him, what then? Some other criminal will take his place. I can’t have your blood on my hands. I can’t do it. I barely survived Cole. Watching it happen again—,” he breaks off, feeling his vocal cords constrict. He can’t keep talking about this anymore.

He turns, unsure of how to escape this nightmare when Connor’s hands find his face, smashing their lips together, trying to silence what Hank is attempting to say. He’s warm and wonderful, and Hank is more than tempted to let Connor have his way. But, then, Hank is gently pulling Connor’s hands from his face and moving out of reach. Connor’s arms fall lamely to his side. He sinks into the couch as Hank widens the gap between them.

“We can’t keep doing this.” Hank says it quietly, but Connor recoils as if he screamed it at him.

“Yes, we can.” He tries again, but, for once, Connor sounds uncertain. It’s not with himself; he’s uncertain of Hank, of what Hank wants. When Hank remains staring resolutely at the opposite wall, he hears Connor make an agonized sound.

“So this is what it feels like,” Connor lets the thought drift and Hank’s on the verge of speaking when Connor continues, “to lose someone.” He says it quietly and Hank can’t bear to look at his face. He hears Connor stand, sees the dim red glow of his distress cast against the wall. A sudden hand on his back makes him jump. Connor had crossed the room in silence, not seeking permission. He didn’t want to give Hank the chance to rebuff him. A cold hand, synthetic skin rippling back, reaches up to caress Hank’s face. It takes every fiber of his being not to lean into the touch.

“Forgive me; I want to remember how you feel against me.” Hank’s heart is screaming in his chest while his mind wavers on its certainty. Is this the right thing? It has to be. It _has_ to be. For Connor’s safety. He has to let him go.

Connor starts speaking again, quietly as if half to himself, “You only said it once. I’m not certain you remember, you were nearly asleep. I was waiting for the right moment to—,” he breaks off, voice straining through a glitch,”—It would seem I waited too long. Thank you, for teaching me how to love.”

Hank almost breaks when Connor pulls away. The visceral need to love and be loved in return is wailing, beating its fists against his lungs. It punches the air out him. Connor is walking toward the door and Hank is willing him to go before he throws himself at his feet. Connor hesitates, one last time. He looks back, slender fingers tensed against the jamb. At Hank’s silence, Connor’s face drops to his feet.

“Goodbye, Hank.” The door closes and Hank rushes it, hoping Connor will walk back through it. He can hear his shoes making a slow retreat on the other side. His lips curl back from his teeth in a grimace, the first sob tearing from his throat, echoing into the silence of the too-empty house. Connor must hear it, he knows, but he doesn’t turn around.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can find me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/WorseMake).


	3. When I See You Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fierce, protective anger licks through Hank’s body at the mention of Sumo, “If you touched one hair on my dog—,” 
> 
> The man cuts him off with a wave of the gun, making Hank and Reed wince. His finger is casually hooked around the trigger, “I had grand plans for your _Sumo_ ,” he says the name like savoring a pleasant memory, “but it would seem your Captain thought it better to not leave him unattended in your home. Your Captain is a most inconvenient man.” 
> 
> He pauses and tilts his head as if trying to get the best angle to see Hank’s reaction to his words, “He _really_ didn’t want me to shoot the robot.” 
> 
> \--
> 
> No one dies. This isn’t the end.

By the time Officer Miller walks into the house, Hank has already retreated to the kitchen. His fingers itch for whiskey, but, really, any alcohol will do. He knows it’s stupid to get drunk while a murderer is hunting him, so he won’t, but he needs a swig of something to help burn away the feeling of instant regret consuming his gut. Tears continue to track down his face against his will, and Hank doesn’t turn around when Miller calls to him from the front door. After a few more minutes of fruitless rummaging, Hank gives up the search and stomps back into the living room.

Miller eyes him warily as if considering whether what he’s about to say is advisable, “He’ll be back, you know.” Hank ignores him, but Miller persists, “Look, Lieutenant. I don’t mean to pry, but everyone at the station knows what’s been…what’s happening between you two. We’re all working this case.” Hank exhales a sigh and shoots a glare at Miller, willing him to stop talking.

Unperturbed, he continues, “I could hear you two, just now. I was walking up to the house, but it didn’t really seem like a good time to walk in and…” he trails off, awkwardness painting every inch of his face.

“You thought you’d hang around and eavesdrop?” Hank says it bitterly, his voice hoarse, trying desperately to find someone else to be angry with besides himself. Miller sidesteps his attempt, refusing to engage Hank like this.

“No, but he’s not going to leave. I can tell you that.” Foolish hope flares to life in Hank’s chest. Maybe he could fix it. Half-formed daydreams flit through the back of Hank’s mind of going to Connor after this was all over, begging him to forgive him.

Something of this must show on Hank’s face because Miller is wearing a distinctly uncomfortable look, “Whoa, I didn’t mean…I don’t know…” Miller pinches the bridge of his nose before continuing, “I just meant Connor is still a detective. He’s still going to work on the case. He’s not going to drop it because you told him to leave.”

Hank knew this already, knew the attempt to protect Connor by distancing him only improved his chances of becoming a target himself marginally if at all. Hank’s deeply ingrained self-destructive behaviors always manifested at the worst possible moment. Even so, he hoped sending Connor away would create space between him and the lunatic pursuing Hank. 

“That bastard’s going to find me, Chris. I can feel it. I don’t want Connor here when it happens. I don’t want to give the fucker the chance to take aim at him.” Hank sags into the couch, closing his eyes.

“So, what, the rest of us are expendable?” Miller bristles, but Hank waves tiredly at him, guilt creeping back up his esophagus like phlegm.

“He killed my son. Set his sights on him to get at me.” He says it barely above a whisper, the information still too new to fully process but sharp enough to hurt if he lingers on it for too long. He hears Miller suck in a loud breath.

“I didn’t know. Everything is on a need to know basis at the station. I’m sorry.” Officer Miller looks uncomfortably around him in search of any other topic of conversation, but the living room is not in a giving mood.

The next several days pass like a dull knife through fresh meat. Hank can feel every minute rip at his mind, every moment without new information making the wound of his own creation worse. Connor does not come, despite officers repeating their rotations staying with Hank. On Gavin Reed’s third return to the house, Hank’s patience is thin enough to shine a light through it.

“The fuck are you back here for already?” Gavin, for his part, doesn’t rise to the bait. He eyes Hank warily before going to the kitchen and cracking the seal of the largely untouched water bottles. Not having Connor in his life meant Hank had fallen back on bad dietary habits, drinking sodas with vindictive ferociousness he refused to acknowledge.

He hears Reed exhale sharply before the man stomps back into the room. “Alright, the fuck is going on with you and the tin can?” Hank startles at the question. He and Reed tolerated each other most days at best. Discussing their personal lives was never something either of them attempted. Hank throws him his best _fuck off_ expression before slouching down further into the couch.

“No, really,” Reed sits in a chair and fixes Hank with an unreadable look, “He’s been the fucking worst since he came back, working everybody into the ground. He skipped his rotation and made me come instead. Fucking _two times_. Like I want to be out here with you any more than you like the idea.” Hank’s stomach twists painfully at the new information. He knew Connor should have been back to the house by now, but not twice. A small part of his brain hisses at him that he told Connor to stay away, but it’s not as if he’s ever listened to Hank in the past.

Gavin’s voice brings him back to the present, “Everyone knows you two were fucking so what the—,” Hank is on his feet and feels each of his hands gather a fistful of Reed’s shirt before his mind can catch up with what’s happening. His ears are ringing so loudly he can’t hear whatever vitriol is pouring out of Reed’s mouth. The smaller man tries to free himself from Hank’s grip rather than fight back, more bark than bite.

Hank releases him with a weary sigh, “You aren’t fucking worth the effort.” When Hank steps away, Gavin resumes his puffed up façade, but they both know how a fight between them will end. Reed mutters a few barbs that Hank ignores and both settle in, waiting for an update.

After an hour of snubbing each other, Reed tries to engage Hank in actual conversation, employing enough tact to avoid Hank punching him, “Seriously, man. What gives with…Connor?” He says it as if saying Connor’s name rather than a slur pains him.

When Hank remains silent, Reed tries again, “Look, fine, you all are dating and had some sort of fight, but Christ, man. He’s running us ragged. _Detective Reed, where are the files I requested? Detective Reed, you should take a three-minute break to eat something with protein. Detective Reed, it should only take you 78 seconds to use the urinal._ He’s fucking timing my food and my bathroom breaks.”

Hank feels a small smile try to tug at the corner of his mouth until he remembers why Connor is terrorizing the precinct. “I told him to leave. To stay away.” Hank doesn’t want to discuss Cole or his personal life with Reed of all people so he leaves it at that. He reaches out to pick up a book from the table that he’s been trying and failing to read all week. He can’t seem to give it more than ten minutes of his time before his thoughts start to drift to Connor and his face when he made him go.

“What, because of the thing with your kid?” Hank freezes in the middle of finding his page. Cold tendrils or grief and fury coil together and shoot through his chest at hearing Reed talk about his son. So much for the precinct getting information on a need to know basis.

Reed either doesn’t notice Hank’s reaction or doesn’t care because he keeps talking, “That’s really fucking stupid, even for you. The asshole isn’t going to leave Connor alone just because he’s not sleeping in your bed anymore. He’s done enough recon on your house to know you care about the tin c—Connor.” He corrects himself at the last moment before falling silent.

Pent-up rage is threatening to explode from Hank as Reed’s words race into his ears and wriggle like worms. The urge to beat the man’s face is reaching critical levels, but his logic is undeniable. Hank knew that Connor wouldn’t let the case rest, but he’d only thought about it from his perspective as the active target. He assumed Perkins’ nephew hadn’t yet set his sights on Connor.

Still, he doubts, “The victim at the last crime scene was holding my picture, not Connor’s.”

Gavin lets out a humorless laugh, “Ever thought it might’ve been to rile Connor up? You’re losing it, old man. If this creep’s been surveilling you for longer than a day, he knows you’re just as important to Connor as he is to you. If he really wanted to hurt you, he’d gun for Connor.” Reed’s tone is bitter, bordering on jealous. Gavin must see Hank’s confused face at his strange attitude toward the subject.

“It just…it must be nice to have someone care that much about you. If I eat a bullet on the job, there isn’t anyone out there who will cry over it.” Hank’s never thought much about where Reed goes after work, not liking the man at all. It was almost as if he didn’t exist outside of the precinct like how children assume their teachers live at their school. It was a bizarre feeling, gaining a glimpse into Gavin’s apparently lonely life.

Even so, he isn’t about to feel sorry for Reed. If he wants someone to give a shit about him, he’ll have to stop acting like a giant prick all the time. Hank’s about to tell him as much when Gavin’s phone vibrates on the table. Hank reaches for it first, eager for any update on the case. He’s seen enough of Jeffrey’s cabin to last him a lifetime and Reed’s disturbing theory makes Hank desperate to see Connor.

He expects to see a message from Fowler, but it’s an alert from the home security system. Hank’s head jerks up to the monitors sitting on a nearby reading desk. He doesn’t see anything suspicious on them, but something tripped an alarm. He and Gavin both approach the computer screens displaying several camera feeds. Gavin sinks into the computer chair and cranks up the audio trying to catch any small sounds. Hank’s almost relaxed again when his subconscious niggles at him.

“Turn the volume all the way up,” when Gavin twists around to give him a skeptical look, Hank pushes the issue, “I want to check something.” Grumbling under his breath about paranoid old has-been’s, Gavin does as he’s told.

After thirty seconds of overly loud wind and general woodsy sounds, Reed starts to protest, “The hell are you waiting to hear? At this volume, a squirrel dropping a nut is going to explode our eardrums.”

Hank holds up his hand and taps the desk, “Listen.” Gavin huffs but complies, “Right…there!” Gavin hears the soft whispering noise. It sounds like leaves skittering across the porch; Gavin is nonplussed.

“And?” Hank holds up his hand again. Then Gavin hears it, the same sound. “The video’s been looped.” He says it quietly, part fear and part alert. Both men back away from the desk and unclip their holsters, eyes still trained on the screen.

“Fucker’s not as smart as he thinks he is. He doesn’t realize the system can still send alerts to your phone.” Hank feels himself release some of his tension at the thought. Perkins had led Hank to believe his nephew was incapable of making errors, but Perkins wasn’t a detective.

“Or maybe,” a sharp voice from behind them makes both of them jump, “the fucker just didn’t care?” Hank spins around to see a thickset man, not much taller than Perkins. There isn’t much resemblance there, but there’s something about the set of the young man’s mouth that oozes the same kind of disdain the FBI agent regularly radiates. He has colorless eyes, reminiscent of dirty dishwater. His hair is cropped close and is dark as night.

“Please, don’t reach for your guns gentlemen. I don’t want to have to shoot you so shortly after meeting you.”

Hank guesses the man got his bulk from his father’s side of the family. Hank could snap Perkins in half with his forefinger and thumb if he felt so inclined. This man looks like he could bend Reed into a pretzel if he wanted to, and Reed is no slouch. Hank feels moderately confident that his sheer size gives him the advantage except for the revolver aimed straight at his chest.

“A .357 magnum,” the man says to him as he thumbs back the hammer. Hank realizes he never learned the man’s name. He remains at the entrance of the living room while speaking, eyes only for Hank, “Do you recognize it, Lieutenant?” With a squint and a groan, Hank realizes it’s his gun. He’s had it locked in a safe in his home for months; how long had it been missing?

“I was rather hoping your dog would put up a fight at my presence, but, as you saw in the photos, he was more comfortable on the floor.”

Fierce, protective anger licks through Hank’s body at the mention of Sumo, “If you touched one hair on my dog—,”

The man cuts him off with a wave of the gun, making Hank and Reed wince. His finger is casually hooked around the trigger, “I had grand plans for your _Sumo_ ,” he says the name like savoring a pleasant memory, “but it would seem your Captain thought it better to not leave him unattended in your home. Your Captain is a most inconvenient man.”

He pauses and tilts his head as if trying to get the best angle to see Hank’s reaction to his words, “He _really_ didn’t want me to shoot the robot.”

“Fuck,” Reed says it quietly and Hank’s brain freezes, unable to accept what the armed lunatic is saying.

 _Connor is fine_ he tells himself. _We would know if something happened. Someone would have contacted us_. He files away his fears and his hopes in favor of focusing on his very disturbing present.

“Did you know the robots can _cry_?” He says it almost as if he doesn’t believe it himself, “ _Yours_ did.” Hank knows the man is trying to get in his head, and he does his best to disregard the words coming out of his thin mouth. Reed has gone oddly still by his side and Hank tries to puzzle meaning out of his stiffness.

“Curious how you ended up with one of the machines, given how your son died.” Hank knows he’s being provoked, and he fights down the urge to attack the man. Unarmed and with too much distance between them, he’d wind up with a bullet in his body before he could so much as lunge for the man or reach for the gun unholstered on his hip.

“He cried out for you, you know? In the end. They always do. They call out for whoever matters most to them.” He’s smiling when he says it, but it doesn’t touch his eyes.

“Why criminals?” Reed’s question startles Hank, but the man doesn’t react at all, doesn’t even turn to spare Reed a glance.

“Not _all_ criminals. Only the woefully inept ones. They give the rest of us a bad name.” He sighs dramatically before continuing, “I mean, what’s the _point_ of committing a crime if you’re not going to do the thing properly?” Reed shifts slightly, angling himself away and it catches Hank’s attention. His rigidness hadn’t relaxed any, and Hank starts to scan the room for any clue to explain Gavin’s odd behavior.

Hank’s biggest qualm with the cabin had been it’s numerous windows. He felt exposed and like he was being watched. Given how easily the man in front of him had invaded the home, he supposes he probably was. Now, he’s never been more grateful for the plethora of glass openings. In the window behind the intruder, Hank can see movement—several bodies darting by under cover of darkness. Reed must’ve noticed as well. Hank returns his attention to the man, trying to keep him focused on Hank rather than his surroundings.

“You think there’s a proper way to commit murder? Jeez, being a Perkins mess you up that bad?” He had picked the topic at random but apparently had struck gold. The man’s head twitches slightly at hearing his uncle’s surname.

“I am not a _Perkins_ ,” he says the name with more emotion than he’s inflected in any of his speech thus far, “That man couldn’t solve a crime if I left him a map and a compass.”

Sensing the wound, Hank presses deeper into it, “I dunno, champ. Seems to me you fit in just great. You remind me of him.” Hank isn’t sure if he’s pushing too hard, trying to toe the line between disarming the guy and pissing him off enough to shoot. He wishes now more than ever that Connor was here. He’d be able to read the man’s emotions as easily as he danced his quarter across his knuckles.

Hank can see the man’s chest heaving and he’s afraid he has dug too deep into some mental injury. His aim on Hank is shaky and Hank feels cold sweat streak salty tracks from his armpits down to his waist.

“That’s enough, Jackson.” Everyone’s eyes turn to look at the staircase opposite the front door just outside of the living room. Perkins steps out, gun drawn, aiming for his nephew. Jackson ignores his uncle and turns his head back to Hank. His gun had never wavered.

“How unfortunate that I have to see your face this evening,” is all he has to offer Perkins.

“It’s over, Jackson. We have the place surrounded.” Jackson seems remarkably unconcerned and opts to step closer to Hank.

“I am curious,” he drawls, halting his forward progression when Perkins shouts at him to stop, “how you managed to get here so soon. The alarm didn’t trip until fifteen minutes ago. I thought I had another forty-five minutes at my disposal to _play_.” Hank suppresses a shiver at how Jackson says play, the word dripping with sinister intent.

“We couldn’t reach Detective Reed or Lieutenant Anderson. You jammed all external incoming signals within 500 yards of the house.” Perkins pulls a signal-blocking device from his pocket with his free hand and drops it to the ground to emphasize his point. Jackson sighs, his expression growing pinched.

“Oh drat,” the absurdity of the childlike swearword takes Hank by surprise. Jackson opens his eyes and gives Hank an apologetic look, “It seems in my zeal to kill you, I made my first error. How disappointing.”

Hank’s stomach clenches painfully at the realization that he and Reed have been out of communication with anyone else for an unknown amount of time. The carefully packed away concern for Connor’s safety comes tumbling out of his mental filing cabinet. Panic grips his lungs and for the first time since engaging Jackson, he feels true fear.

“Your second, actually.” Connor steps out of the shadows of the staircase, and merciful relief floods Hank’s body, “You should have stuck around long enough to make sure I was dead.” As Connor steps fully into the light, Hank can see a bullet hole in his shirt as well as a disturbing amount of blue blood making the material stick to his synthetic skin.

Part of Connor’s neck looked white where the skin couldn’t fully expand to cover it. He gestures at it before explaining, “You did some damage and triggered a reboot, but there’s no lasting impairment.” Hank can see Jackson’s composure starting to waiver at this second failure of the evening. Whatever the man had said earlier, at least part of it was true: he had tried to kill Connor.

A desperate stupid desire to stride across the room to Connor and crush him in a hug seizes Hank, and his legs shift in anticipation of movement before he regains his senses. Jackson notices and an unpleasant smile skitters across his lips, tugging up one corner of his mouth ahead of the other. He adjusts his grip on the gun and corrects his aim.

“Jackson, do not make me shoot you.” Perkins stands his ground as Connor takes aim as well.

Jackson rolls his shoulders at hearing his uncle’s voice. He regards Hank like the most interesting thing he’s ever seen, “I’ve never made a mistake before, much less two. I’d be a hypocrite to let it go. I _abhor_ criminals who make foolish mistakes.” He tilts his head back slightly in Connor’s direction before crooning, “It is nice that you are here to see this, at least.” Reed makes a confused sound as Hank realizes with terrible clarity what Jackson intends to do.

Hank registers two things before his shoulder erupts in molten pain: Jackson taking aim at his head and Connor rushing the man, his body barely more than a blur. Connor’s shoulder connects with Jackson’s back and his aim goes wide, missing his intended target location but still making contact all the same. Hank hears the scuffle as his considerable bulk crumples to the ground. Gavin’s face hovers over his with more concern than Hank has ever seen the man display.

As the edges of his vision start to fade, Hank struggles to hang onto consciousness. Connor’s face replaces Gavin’s and Hank tries to speak, but all that comes out is a pained wheeze. He hears Connor make soft shushing sounds, feels him grip his hands. He feels so much warmer than Hank. Hank knows Connor is pleading with him to stay awake. He tells him to hold on, that help is on the way, but consciousness slips through his fingers like silk and darkness wraps him in its embrace.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on [twitter](https://twitter.com/WorseMake). I'm overly friendly and talk too much if you want to join me in bottom Hank hell.


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